


Arachnid meets Mercenary (and is happier for it)

by landunderwave



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Loneliness, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mentioned Gwen Stacy, Mentioned May Parker (Spider-Man), Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicide, spidery spidey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 04:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18242423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landunderwave/pseuds/landunderwave
Summary: Spiderman is strong, fast, self-confident, sassy. Peter Parker is awkward, nerdy, socially graceless, and visibly not-human. They are both so very lonely.Enter stage left, one Merc with a Mouth, aka Deadpool, aka Wade Winston Wilson, booty-seeker extraordinaire. Also secretly lonely.Will they overcome their hangups and fall in love? Definitely, it's written in the tags.





	Arachnid meets Mercenary (and is happier for it)

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 09/2019: Thank you so much to everyone who commented, I have been chickening out on reading them but I shouldn't have, love you guys! Made my year, and now I'm really motivated to keep writing. Gah! I'm literally shaking. I love extra-spidery Peter, and I'm sad that it's rare in fics. If anyone feels inspired by the molting idea, please use it and send me the link to your work so I can read it!
> 
> EDIT PS. I did have a horrible, godawful continuation in my head where Peter kept molting and mutating, not turning into a full spider but maybe growing extra eyes and limbs (like Tom Holland's suit style), losing his humanity piece by piece until he doesn't recognize Wade anymore and operates on instinct alone, and starts eating people. And poor Wade is forced to put him down, knowing his Peter is gone and would want him to stop what was left. I wrote it out in my head, but I never want to actually write it because it is so fucking sad. I am keeping the happy ending! So just assume Peter stops molting after another time or two because he hits adulthood, and they live happily ever after with their Costco membership.
> 
>  
> 
> This is my first fic, be gentle. I wrote this many ages ago and rediscovered it, decided to slap on an ending and publish because I realized it was long enough and (I think) decent enough.  
> In this story, Peter molts like a spider, and gets more spider attributes each time, to the point where he can't pass as human; so like Wade, he hides behind his suit. The beginning of this story and Peter's life is pretty tragic until Wade shows up.
> 
> I have no idea what readers will think of my writing, this is scary. But my battlecry is YOLO, so I'm challenging myself and leaving my comfort zone. I'm new to tagging as well, so if I left anything out please let me know.

At 15, Peter gets bit by a radioactive spider during the freshman school trip to Oscorp. Uncle Ben dies. After a lot of confusion, some terrible sewing, and really cool lab experiments, Peter becomes Spiderman, the superhero every socially awkward nerd dreams of being, everything Peter Parker is not: strong, fast, confident, and of course with spider-themed superpowers. He defeats the bad guy and gets the girl. 

At 16, his best friend goes insane and the girl dies.

At 17, he goes through his first molt.

It’s spring break and his skin  _ itches _ . Aunt May gives him hydrocortisone but his flesh won’t stop burning, he can’t stay still, he feels awful, like he’s going insane from chickenpox like when he was little, does he need to go to the hospital? No, no he can’t, but he just tells her he needs some rest. Some rest turns into a week-long nap and Aunt May discovers he is Spiderman (“Peter, what do you think you’re doing! You’re too young to be anything, let alone a hero!” and it hurts more than his body), because while he was unconscious he spun himself into a cocoon and when he emerges he leaves his skin behind, including his hair. His body aches, his new skin is raw and a million times more sensitive; all of his hair has been replaced by spider bristles that feel like velvet (he no longer has curly hair) and the sensory overload is unbearable. Hearing, touch, and smell have all blurred into one permanent migraine; his spidey-sense is triggered by dishes breaking at the neighbor’s two houses down. He’s stronger, faster, and his eyesight has gone wonky; not blurry, more like he’s selectively zooming in on parts of his vision: things that move or flash or have bright colors grab his attention like an ADHD squirrel, which makes reading nearly impossible, he struggles to notice the static letters on the still pages. He misses most of his last year of high school, but luckily Aunt May covers for him, gets him a doctor’s note with about a chronic illness, and no one questions it after Gwen (not that anyone cares). He keeps up on classes and homework as best he can, somehow still makes valedictorian, but doesn’t make it to the graduation ceremony.

At 18, he gets into university. Between the more flexible schedule, online courses, all the AP credits he’d already completed (the only reason he hadn’t finished high school early was so he could feel normal, ironic he knew, and financial, but Ben’s life insurance had helped), he managed. He got a part-time job at the Daily Bugle photographing Spiderman (ha!) and moved out of his home (it would always be home) into the shittiest, skeeviest, cheapest apartment he could find. He couldn’t face Aunt May’s disappointment and worry every time he came home to her waiting for him, covered in bruises and dirt and sometimes blood. It’s easier (for him), away from Aunt May, though he still visits at least once a week. The apartment is frankly terrible: the AC and central heating don’t work, he only gets five minutes of warm water, the walls are paper thin and smell of mildew; but the bedroom and living room windows face a brick wall, making it easy for him to creep in and out, and no one bothers him.

19 brings another molt. This time he’s expecting it when his skin starts to feel ten times too small, tells all his teachers there’s a family emergency for two weeks, warns Aunt May. He sets up a video recorder, spins the cocoon while conscious, then passes out for 153 hours and 21 minutes. He now produces his own webbing from spinnerets in his wrists and ankles, but not enough to replace his synthetic webbing; his canines fell out and he had grown small fangs with incomplete venom glands; his vision is blurry far away, and a close inspection shows that his iris and pupils are larger than normal; his body temperature dropped from ‘cool’ to ‘cold’. On the upside, his brain has changed enough that he’s no longer in constant agony from sensory overload, processing the hum of electricity through the walls and Dave the stoner’s heartbeat as normal as the tv playing in the background. He uses his own webbing to make his Spider-suit, weaving and dying it himself, his silk not grating on his skin and bristles like human-made fabrics and keeping him warm, especially in the winter (he makes sure to preheat himself with a hot shower and hot packs). Peter Parker makes sure to be more boring than ever, more normal than ever, just another nerd with thick black-framed glasses not cool enough to be a hipster, so that no one will look closely and realize he isn’t. 

At 21, he patents a modified version of his webbing, and with practical applications varying from medical to military use he can live off the royalties. He still freelances for the Bugle, still lives in the horrible apartment, still fights crime at night as Spiderman, still struggles with classes. He’s exhausted and is holding together by a thread (hah). He runs into the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen one night, with his dark red suit and devil horns, who says “Nice suit.” before parkouring away across the roofs. Peter’s constantly fixing and making new Spiderman costumes, and the next version uses a darker red and navy blue rather than the bright primaries.

At 22 he goes through his third molt. The fangs are fully mobile with functional venom glands that produce a paralytic neurotoxin; his sclera have practically disappeared, and the dark brown of his irises make his eyes look wholly black in dim light; he produces more of his own webbing, which he’s been experimenting on to develop new synthetic webbing though he’s still perfecting various formulas; his six senses -- sight, touch, hearing, taste, smell, danger -- have blended into a mass of synesthesia that he can’t really tell apart. He drops out of school and quits his freelancing, starts wearing a hoodie, sunglasses, and a surgical mask every time he’s out as Peter Parker (“Oh my god, Peter! Oh lord, come here, it’s okay, shh, it’s okay, I love you and always will, you’ll always be my sweet boy...”).

23, Aunt May dies of cancer at age 59. 

He’s 24 when he first meets Deadpool.

It’s 1am, on the roof of a skyscraper in Manhattan, near the Avengers Tower. He’s Spiderman full-time now, sleeps during the day, lives off his patent royalties; Peter Parker is nobody, Mr. Parker is an eccentric, mysterious independent inventor. He’s perching against the concrete ledge, ignoring the thrum of the buildings beneath and around him, the cars, the smoggy evening breeze, listening for the high-pitched sounds of screams and sirens and gunshots. He feels him coming, but even without enhanced senses the tall, bulky man is tip-toeing exaggeratedly while humming the Pink Panther song, pretending to hide behind the air circulators as he approaches.

Spiderman’s first thought upon seeing the full-body suit, guns, and are those swords? is that the man is a new villain.  _ At least he’s not animal-themed _ , is his only comment. He’s not worried, confident in his abilities (and being cold-blooded keeps him cool) but his spidey-sense isn’t registering any danger either, which is odd. So he stays put, lets the stranger gets closer, and when he’s about ten feet away and bending his knees, as if to pounce, asks without moving: “Who are you, and what do you want?”

The man gasps and leaps back, holding a hand up to his chest in a mock heart-attack. “Spidey, don’t scare me like that!”

“You’re the one trying to sneak up on me. And failing miserably, I might add.”

Another gasp. “Dreams do come true! Sexy  _ and _ sassy. Totally worth scaling 65 floors.”

Wait, did the guy just call him…  _ sexy _ ?

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what was under the mask.”

“Hey, that’s my line!” the man exclaims in genuine outrage, his voice becoming lower and rougher. “That’s  _ my _ trademark, you get to be full of nerdy angst and puns and naive optimism!”

The man’s voice is naturally deep and gravelly now that he’s dropped the falsetto, like his vocal cords are damaged; the low vibrations make him tingle. But Spiderman repeats his question: “Who are you, and what do you want?”

The other costume bows and strikes an overdramatic, dashing hero pose. “Tis I, Deadpool, come a-questing for the bounciest bubble butt in Brooklyn!”

Peter’s brain freezes. “We’re in Manhattan.”

“Hush! Don’t ruin my alliteration. Now you’re supposed to go, ‘why, Sir Deadpool, what an honor! Prithee accept this handkerchief as a symbol of our undying love!’”

“Never heard of you.” He doesn’t know how to respond to this… flirting?

“The Merc with the Mouth? Pool, Dead? Terror of the Great Lakes ( _ I am so called that! _ )? Voted sexiest man alive in 2018?”

Peter can’t help snorting. When was the last time he’d laughed?  _ Not since Aunt May _ , a traitorous part of him answered. Peter Parker only exists to pay bills and answer the door for takeout and go grocery shopping. Spiderman beats up criminals and was rarely spoken to outside of expletives and threats, often including from the victims he’d just saved (except for fires, no one got mad at Spiderman for showing up when a building was in flames and he could lower everyone out with his webbing). 90% of the reason he talked while fighting nowadays was because otherwise he’d forget how to. (God, when did he become so lonely?)

“Why, Sir Deadpool, what an honor,” he repeats dutifully in his most unimpressed voice.

“And what big beautiful buttocks you have!” replied the madman. 

“You’re insane.” This entire time Spiderman had been facing away; now he turns around and sees Deadpool up close. The suit is red and black, made of Kevlar, leather and spandex. Those really are swords strapped to his back, katanas specifically if he’s not mistaken based on the hilts, and there’s grenades dangling from his utility belt, along with guns and knives. He reeks of BO and old blood and gunpowder and is that Mexican? but he still hasn’t made any violent moves, and Peter’s spidey-sense is still quiet.

“Yup, crazy for that hot piece of spidey ass!” Deadpool makes finger guns and  _ did his mask just wink?!  _ Maybe Peter is the one going insane.

“Right. Well, nice meeting you, I have to go wash my hair.” With that Spiderman leaps off the building, shoots some web, and slings away, but not without hearing Deadpool shout: “Catch ya later!”

  
  
  


Later turned out to be the next night. Spiderman has knocked two would-be muggers unconscious and is about to web a third, who is coming up behind him, when suddenly a gunshot echoes through the alleyway along with the smell of blood. Mugger number three now has a bullet in his thigh, Peter is panicking because he doesn’t sense the shooter, he’s scrambling to get into the screaming mugger’s pockets to get his phone and has to web shut his mouth and the wound. 

“Yo Spidey! You should be more careful.”

That deep, tingly voice is none other than Deadpool, who  _ should not have been able to sneak up on him _ . It was physically impossible. Spiderman could feel his heartbeat, the blood flowing through his veins, his lungs inhaling and exhaling, his stomach digesting, the deafening rustle of clothes and footsteps, the stench of old blood, BO, gunpower and Mexican food. The only plausible answer was that Deadpool was somehow enhanced, had some kind of power allowing him to pass undetected by his spidey-senses. Spiderman hadn’t even heard him pull the trigger, but the figuratively smoking gun was in the self-proclaimed mercenary’s hand as he waved it at him like a naughty finger.

“Why did you shoot him, Deadpool?” Spiderman asked with a calm Peter didn’t feel.

“Because he was about to get the drop on you! I had to swoop in rescue you, so how about a little gratitude?” He  _ winked and waggled his eyebrows through the mask _ and lewdly thrust his hips forward.

“Hello, I would like to report a shooting, a man just got shot in the thigh.” Spiderman gave the address to the 911 responder, ignoring Deadpool’s antics for the moment.

“Aww, but he’s a bad guy! Mugging a poor little old lady!” (Actually a forty-something native New Yorker who looked more offended by Deadpool’s comment than the attempted mugging, grabbing her purse and stomping off.)

“Shooting him was unnecessary, and excessive. I knew he was there, and had everything under control. Thank you for trying to help, though.”

At that Deadpool froze, and Spiderman heard his heart skip a beat. What he didn’t understand was why. Yes Deadpool’s methods had been wrong, but he had been trying to save Spiderman from a pipe to the head. Peter wasn’t so ungrateful that he didn’t appreciate the intent and effort ( _ Aunt May and Uncle Ben had raised him better than that _ ).

“You’re welcome, anytime! That ass is a national treasure that needs protecting, and Agent Pool is on the case.”

Peter had been bullied all throughout his childhood (and teenagehood). He instinctively thought of Deadpool’s words as mocking, except the man sounded genuine (or his powers prevented Peter’s from working, or the guy was insane. Yep, Peter was going to go with insane). Was this man whom he met yesterday, a mercenary/spy agent/knight in sweaty spandex, actually hitting on Spiderman? 

“Are you seriously flirting with me?” he blurted out, mugger forgotten.

“I am seriously interested in spending some quality time rubbing  _ your  _ hot bod with  _ my  _ bod,” he gestured at his form-revealing suit (Deadpool was  _ built _ ).

“I don’t kiss before the third date,” was what his mouth chose to spit out.

“Does yesterday count, ‘cause that would mean this is our second, so I’m going to go now, see you soon for our third!” And just like that Deadpool ran out of the alley and down the street, leaving Peter confused. The mugger groaned as he went into shock, dragging Spiderman back to the present. The hero hid until the ambulance arrived, then continued his nightly patrol, mind churning as he tried to process the idea that someone could be attracted to Peter (Spiderman). (Gwen was gone, and it was his fault.)

  
  
  


The following night Deadpool showed up again, except Spiderman was a little busy fighting Rhino in a now abandoned avenue. The villain had managed to create some kind of coating that prevented his webbing from sticking to his mechanized suit, dissolving it on contact, which was more than a little worrisome. Spiderman was trying to avoid fist-to-fist because despite spider-strength he was still flesh, and the Rhino was not. He was vaguely aware of Deadpool, sitting on a fire escape eating popcorn and providing a running commentary sports-match style. 

“And there goes Spiderman with his signature move, the classic wrapper-upper, but what’s this! The Rhino has escaped, it wasn’t very effective…”

Peter struggled not to laugh and get distracted even as the Rhino ripped up a lamppost and swung it at him like a bat. He knew from video footage that Spiderman’s movements were so fast as to be freaky, with his double-jointed limbs and flexibility he looked… spidery, to put it mildly. Alien. Not human.

But there was Deadpool, cheering Spiderman, booing the Rhino and tossing unpopped kernels at the latter, though with the fighting and all he was basically aiming at the both of them.

Spiderman grabbed the lamppost from Rhino on his next swing, and stabbed it like a spear at Rhino’s knee joint. The metal of the lamppost was weaker and bent, doing nothing to the mechanical armor. He dodged a blow and abandoned the ineffective weapon. Rhino roared in frustration and used his shoulder machine guns to strafe the street, forcing Spiderman to duck for cover behind a van that was instantly shredded like paper. Hearing a garbled shout and smelling fresh blood, Peter realized that Deadpool had been hit.

“ **NO!** ”

Spiderman grabbed the van and threw it at Rhino, using the distraction to climb onto the slippery armor and punch the plexiglas hood with his full strength; he kept punching until the thermoplastic cracked, causing the man inside to curse, and then a shard fell out, allowing Spiderman to pry the rest apart and punch the villain in the face, fracturing the Rhino’s cheekbone and instantly knocking him out cold.

The Rhino armor froze without its controller, and Peter rushed over to Deadpool, who was… clapping?

“Brava, brava! Encore!”

“Deadpool, are you alright?!” He could see the holes in the suit across his chest where the man had been hit, could smell but not see the blood on his suit, except he didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, and Deadpool was not dead.

“Right as rain, Spidey. Don’t tell me you were worried?” he joked with a waggle of his masked eyebrows (Seriously  _ how was he doing that? _ ).

“Of course I was! I felt you get hit, how are you not dying?” (Dead. He should be dead, and it was his fault. Should have been stronger, faster, smarter--)

“Wait, you really haven’t heard of me? Baby boy, I’m unkillable, best healing factor on the market, Logan can suck it.”

A healing factor? “As in you can regenerate tissue fast enough not to die?”

“Yu-p!” he said proudly, pressing his thumbs against imaginary suspenders. “Unless it’s a big owie, then I come back from the grave.”

Fascinating. The scientist in Peter immediately began analyzing: possible causes and side effects, could it be replicated, the methodology, potential applications…

“Oh Spidey, keep staring like that and you’ll make me blush,” Deadpool twittered as he coyly held a hand up to his mouth.

Right. Planning experiments on people to their faces was rude. “Sorry. Are you really okay? Can you still feel pain?”

Deadpool laughed, a deep belly laugh, but it was a dark sound. “Oh, I can still feel pain alright.” His voice had dropped to a low growl, full of bitterness. Peter sensed (with his human social skills, what little he had) that there was more to that story, and it wasn’t a happy one. 

Before Peter could offer to help, not that he knew if he even could, Deadpool did a one-eighty and in an overly cheerful voice said: “So, third date, went well, wanna walk me home?” The hunk of a man batted his eyelashes at Spiderman ( _ through the mask! _ ).

There was a burst of sirens as the police finally decided to join the scene now that the villain was down. Spiderman had heard them coming, and chose this moment of distraction to web himself onto a building, up and away. His usual quippiness had deserted him, so he just left awkwardly without saying anything. (Wait, why was he the one feeling awkward? A crazy immortal in a suit with questionable morals was sexually harassing him,  _ he _ was being normal for once!)

  
  
  


After that, or rather since the very first night, Deadpool started following (stalking) Spiderman around. He didn’t always succeed in catching up with Spiderman, who could swing from building to building much more easily and quickly, and when he did the man made a show of displaying his muscles (and no, Peter didn’t notice how well-defined and thick they were). The steady flow of compliments, innuendo, lewd jokes and come-ons never ceased, even as Deadpool panted for breath as he pursued Spiderman across rooftops and through alleyways. He even pitched in occasionally, taking down petty criminals with either a well-thrown punch or a non-fatal gunshot wound.

Peter did some research. Deadpool really was a mercenary, and had been even before his vigilante life; his real identity, one (objectively handsome) Wade Winston Wilson, ex-Canadian special forces, wasn’t secret at all. There was even an old Deadpool ad in the yellow pages, under “pools”. Digging through hero fan forums, Peter found a lot of speculation but few hard facts, but there was a definite before and after, where Wade Wilson went from an ordinary mercenary to Deadpool, immortal, clinically insane, and with a blatant disregard for human life. Deadpool always wore the full-body suit, not revealing a speck of skin, and there were a lot of theories as to why, but most of them involved illegal human experimentation and torture. 

One thing was certain: where Deadpool went, death followed; brutal, gory, mass murder committed by a man who couldn’t die.

But Peter had a hard time reconciling this savage, merciless image with the over-enthusiastic puppy of a man who openly adored Spiderman, made horrible puns and hilarious, often weird pop culture references, and was obsessed with the Golden Girls and Mexican food. Until one night on patrol they (since when was it they?) interrupted a bunch of human traffickers shoving girls into a shipping container at the docks. Deadpool sliced his way through fifteen men in a whirlwind of steel, their guns not slowing him in the slightest. Spiderman should have stopped him, should have captured the criminals and handed them in to the authorities, but instead focused on helping the seventeen traumatized girls.

That was the first time Deadpool triggered his spidey-sense; the look on Deadpool’s face, even through the mask, caused Peter to shiver at the memory. Now he understood why everyone else saw Deadpool as dangerous, that his title as mercenary wasn’t just for show. But it seemed like Deadpool had turned a new leaf, was only killing bad guys, which Spiderman should argue against, but Peter secretly agreed with. Not all criminals could be reformed, and he had long since lost his innocence about what humans were capable of doing to other human beings. But Peter had sworn an oath, that Spiderman would never kill, never abuse his powers and become judge, jury and executioner. No matter how sorely tempted he was sometimes, he would not break his promise to Uncle Ben, nor to himself.

  
  
  


The time after that, Deadpool found him in Queens, lost in thought sitting with his legs dangling off of his favorite brownstone. The mercenary shoved a bag of tacos at him, still warm and smelling heavenly.

“What’s this?” asked Peter even as he accepted the greasy package.

“Celebration tacos! It’s our three month anniversary.”

“Has it only been that long?” he said jokingly as he debated between eating them now while they were fresh and exposing his mouth, or holding onto them for later (he was going to wait).

“I know, right? Time flies when you’re having fun! And fruit flies like a banana.”

Peter groaned. “I want a divorce.”

“We’d have to be married for that, sweet cheeks. Just say the words, and I’ll  _ do  _ you,” he said suggestively as he sat down besides him, kicking his feet. “Are you going to eat those?” he asked, saving Peter from having to respond.

“I’m saving them for later.”

“But that ruins my dastardly plan to see those fuckable lips! Whoops, I said that out loud didn’t I, shut up Yellow this is your fault.”

Peter was glad for the mask, if he were still capable of blushing he’d be redder than the suit. Three months of interacting with Deadpool almost nightly, this was the weirdest? most social? relationship he’d ever had outside of family (and Gwen), and he still didn't know how to react to Deadpool’s commentary. The man lived up to his title and was able to ramble non-stop about anything and everything, and even when Peter (Spiderman) didn't participate it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. And he never missed an opportunity to harass (compliment) Spiderman about his ‘shapely form’ beneath the suit. Peter couldn't tell how much was teasing, and how much was serious, and he knew squat about flirting; Gwen had been his only romantic relationship, and she had made the first move and basically been in charge of the whole thing. (Somehow the memory of her didn’t sting so much right now, and that thought made him tense with guilt.) But Deadpool was funny, at least to Peter, and while unpredictable he was undeniably interesting, and let’s not forget, the only person who wanted to talk to Peter (Spiderman).

Who was Deadpool, exactly? Who was Wade Wilson? What did he want from Spiderman (Peter)? Why him? How could he describe, let alone qualify, their interactions (relationship)?

Peter Parker and Spiderman had no friends. Was he desperate enough for company to tolerate a murdering lunatic? (Yes.) Over the past three months Deadpool hadn’t stopped talking, yet for all his words he had said very little. Spiderman (Peter) still knew nothing about the person underneath the mask, and he supposed Deadpool could say the same about Spiderman; it wasn’t like he volunteered any personal information. 

But tonight, something felt different. The tacos were clearly a peace offering, an apology for the night before. A bridge.

“Deadpool, why are you here?” Peter asked softly.

“Hoo boy, that’s a deep one. Why are any of us here? Where is here, anyway? But seriously I’m not even sure where we are right now, I keep getting turned around, plus the ol’ pumpkin’s full of nuts. Yes I know seeds and nuts aren’t the same thing, since when are you a botanist White? I’ll have you know I was a boy scout, and I know how to recognize poison ivy, and the good kind of shrooms, and tie a hangman’s knot; though to be fair I learned that later…”

Peter hadn’t had the courage to ask, but it was obvious from context that Deadpool heard and replied to voices in his head whom (which?) he called White and Yellow. Whenever he caught himself responding out loud he would freeze for a moment in embarrassment before trying to distract Spiderman by being obnoxious. (And what did it say about Peter/Spiderman that obnoxious was better than lonely?) From what Peter could gather from the one-sided conversations, the voices seemed to criticize Deadpool a lot.

At some point Deadpool’s ramble about feline bigfoot (aka the Canadian lynx) and their oversized toe beans petered out as he realized Spiderman was still waiting for answer. This 6 foot something pile of ripped, cold-blooded killer had the personality of a tween girl (and a surprisingly soft gooey center).

“Er, sorry, what was the question again?”

He didn’t buy it, but he repeated himself anyway. “Why are you here?” the younger man almost whispered.

Deadpool shifted uncomfortably, the cold tacos lying between them as they watched the city buzz below them. 

“Because I want to be a hero.”

Of all the answers Peter could have imagined, that one had not been on the list.

“Why? And what does that have to do with me?”

“I was a mercenary, before,” he gestured vaguely in the air, “I was good at it, really good at it, and sometimes I enjoyed the job, but in the end I was killing people for money. When I got my powers, I decided to be more selective about my clientele, only go after bad guys. As atonement.” 

Peter listened in rapt silence, surprised by how open Deadpool was being. 

“I was actually here on a job, going after some drug lord, when I saw that fine ass swinging by, and heard your snazzy repartee as you stopped some bank robbers. It was love at first pun.” The man framed his face with his hands like an anime girl. “And you… when I messed up, you didn’t yell at me.” Here his voice got small. “All the other heroes hate me, but you thanked me, even though I fucked up and shot that man’s leg.”

He didn't know what to say, but after a beat Deadpool kept going.

“You’ve been protecting New York for 8 years, even though the media hates you, and you never kill. You rescue kittens out of trees and help grannies cross the street and carry their groceries home, the whole nine yards. You put up with me, even though I’m annoying and never shut up and keep distracting you while you’re busy, and you actually  _ listen _ . You’re genuinely…  _ nice _ .”

Now he was really at a loss. Turns out Deadpool, for all his flamboyant self-confidence, was just as lonely. And sincerely looked up to Spiderman as the model hero. What should he say? The mercenary had just opened himself up, made himself vulnerable, and Peter was shit at feelings, and Spiderman was supposed to know what he was doing.

“Deadpool, you don’t need me to be a hero. You don’t need anyone but yourself. Being a hero isn’t about defeating big bad villains, it’s about working to be a better person, every day. And it sounds like you’re already doing that.”

He can hear the bigger man’s heart stutter in his chest, his sharp inhale overly loud against the cacophony of New York. 

“Call me Wade.”

Years of hiding his identity keep Spiderman from giving his (even though he has no one to protect now).

“Wade,” Peter half-states, half-agrees.

“So tacos to get to first base, what will it take for a home run?” Wade jokes, overly cheerful, breaking the tension like a baseball through a windowpane.

“They do say the way to the heart is through the stomach.” (Why is he encouraging him!)

“Ooh, baby boy, I am going to woo your socks off.”

  
  
  


True to his word, Wade starts bringing Mexican food to their meetups: tacos, chimichangas, burritos, etc. which Spiderman always saves for later though he’s always secretly disappointed about letting them get cold and congealed; microwaving them isn’t the same. At this point Spiderman and Deadpool are a team, pairing up most nights to patrol the city and non-lethally stop crime.

Around the seven-month mark, they’re sitting on yet another rooftop just after sunset, watching the stars come out (not that there are any visible through the light pollution and smog; Peter’s never left the city, never seen a clear night sky, and now he never will). Wade has brought a bag of chimichangas from his favorite Mexican place, still warm in their tinfoil, and Peter can hear the man’s stomach grumbling. So far both of them have avoided revealing any of their skin, so Peter freezes, going spider-still in surprise, when Wade rolls up the lower half of his mask up to his nose and starts eating a chimi. Since Peter’s eyesight is terrible and he senses rather than sees, he doesn’t turn to look, but focusing intensely he can feel the way the air rubs against the mercenary’s skin, like it’s uneven but hairless. Deadpool often, very casually, mentions in passing how there’s something wrong with his skin with descriptions like “butterface”, “old avocado that had sex with an older avocado”, “love child of Freddy Krueger and pizza cheese”. Peter doesn’t watch horror, but he understands the reference and assumes that Wade had been injured somehow and his skin was permanently damaged. The current situation however only confirms that his skin isn’t smooth and doesn’t have hair, neither of which are very conclusive.

He forces himself to breathe normally, knows he should reciprocate the show of trust. But no one has seen his face, not since his last molt, not since Aunt May, and though Aunt May had still loved him Peter couldn’t say the same for anyone else (May is dead). 

It’s dark, dark enough that a normal human wouldn’t be able to see much more than his outline. So Peter faces away a little, grabs a chimichanga, and pushes through his terror and his mask up so that he can take a bite.

The two eat in rare silence, neither looking at the other. After that they start eating the food Deadpool brings together.

  
  
  


Peter Parker is out of food and needs to go out for groceries. He would order groceries online, but no one will deliver to this neighborhood anymore after a recent gang shootout (that Spiderman stopped) and he can't blame them. Despite the sweltering heat, blazing sun and burning concrete, he wears a hoodie with the hood up, sunglasses, and a medical mask. He can pass his clothes and his black claws off as a fashion choice, also it’s New York, no one cares. 

He goes to the Costco in Brooklyn; he has a big freezer back at the apartment which takes up half the kitchen/living room for storing frozen meat. His diet is mainly protein; he shreds the meat and takes supplements to make up for the vitamins from vegetables he has trouble digesting. Basically the only real food he eats is the Mexican he receives from Deadpool.

Efficiently cruising down the baked goods aisle, tempted even though bread made his stomach cramp a little, he is shocked into stillness when he notices another man dressed like him: hoodie, sunglasses indoors, medical mask, and gloves, his cart full of microwaveable meals, junk food, and ice cream. The other man notices him and they both stop and stare at each other.

“Yo, fashion bros!”

Oh no. 

That deep tingly voice. 

This was Deadpool in civvies, grocery shopping.

The fear of being discovered instinctively kicked in. Peter nodded and resumed his path a bit faster. But Wade had turned to follow him.

“What’s with this weather, amiright? Global warming sucks, I was frying eggs out on the pavement earlier. I love the eggs here, love me some butt, I mean bulk, bulk groceries! Great for making bulk pancakes. And they have real syrup, not that fake shit, and not from  _ Vermont _ either. Pure Canadian maple or go home to your sad, sad pancakes. Did you see how cheap the roll cakes are? Look delicious too, but what am I going to do with two roll cakes? Just kidding, I can totally eat four of them by myself.”

They’re now in meats and cheeses, Wade is rattling on like a machine gun, and Peter is low key freaking out. What if Wade recognizes his voice? (Why does he care so much, what is he afraid of?)

By the time they reach dry goods Wade appears to realize he’s unwelcome (though Peter doesn’t want to make him feel that way) (Why is he hiding?)

“Wow, cereal at 9 o’clock. Welp, nice meeting you, catch ya later.”

When he meets Deadpool that night Peter feels awkward, like he hasn’t since they first met. Wade is easy to be around, always happy to see Peter (Spiderman), always ready with a quip and topic of conversation, always begging Spiderman to let him ride him (“Both the sexy way and the spidey way!”). It feels like he has a one-up on the mercenary, that by seeing him out of the suit he’s unbalanced their relationship and stole something from Wade. 

  
  
  


Two months later Peter Parker runs into Wade Wilson again at the Costco. Peter is wearing the same getup; Wade is wearing a hoodie with the hood up over a baseball cap, no medical mask or sunglasses. Peter can sense people stop and stare, hear their hearts and breath stutter in surprise, hears people mutter: “Freak.” “What’s wrong with him?” “Wonder if it’s contagious.” “Poor man, don’t stare it’s rude.”

He knows Wade hears them too, can feel the way he tenses, can hear him clenching his teeth. So Peter Parker goes up to him this time, awkwardly standing in silence for several long seconds behind his cart.

“Hey fashion bro,” is what finally comes out.

Wade smiles, and Peter can see as well as sense the man’s happiness. This close he can make out the whiteness of his teeth, the way his eyes sparkle at the unexpected pleasure. “Hey yourself! So I see you’re a meat lover, mm, love me some sausage.” He winks, and all Peter can think is that he’s seen him wink before, even though it was under (through?) the mask.

Spiderman is strong, fast, self-confident, sassy. Peter Parker is awkward, nerdy, socially graceless, and dressed like he’s about to rob a bank. But both sides of him have no idea how to respond to such blatant flirting.

“And I see you like Rocky Road. My favorite is mint chocolate chip.” Oh my god, what is he, five?

“An excellent choice!” he booms exuberantly, attracting more stares. “Yet I cannot help but notice, my good sir, that there is no ice cream in your cart. A grievous mistake which we must rectify at once!”

Peter lets himself be dragged to the ice cream section, where Wade seriously debates the merits of each brand and flavor. He’s known him for nearly a year now, but Wade in civvies was different than Wade in Deadpool costume. He was, not more relaxed exactly, less pressured? Spiderman was his hero, and as close as they’d gotten they’d established a certain dynamic. As fashion bros, two complete strangers, Wade was showing a different aspect of himself, unconcerned with censoring himself (not that he ever did) or living up to expectations (his own more than Spiderman’s).

By the time they check out, Wade has covered Venezuelan politics, the difference between Japanese and American advertising, the latest episodes of My Little Pony (which he assured Peter he only watched ironically, but the younger man wasn’t convinced), the pros and cons of lemon biscuits versus lemon drops, the tragic death of the Gros Michel banana, and the importance of proper footwear (this coming from a man currently wearing crocs with socks, in public). Spiderman has heard the banana rant before, but Peter never ceases to be amazed at the never-ending fount of factoids that is Wade Wilson aka Deadpool.

They split up, hands full of reusable bags full of groceries, heading in opposite directions. “Catch ya later! By the way, name’s Wade.”

Peter freezes as he’s about to give his own. Shit, should he invent a fake name? (Why?) Peter Parker was useless under pressure, so he blurts out “Bye” and hurries (ran) away.

  
  
  


“So I met someone at Costco today, reminded me of you.”

Peter nearly chokes on his lo mein (he had picked the place today, unable to stomach more Mexican food). “Oh?”

“Yeah, nice kid, laughed at my banana joke.”

“Which one?”

“You’re right, so many banana jokes, so little time, times flies, fruit flies--”

“No don’t you dare, you’ve already used that one.”

“Awww, but mom! Haha, butts.”

They chew for a few moments in silence. The night is unusually cold for autumn, his heater is broken as always, and crime is low tonight. So Peter surprises himself by asking: “Wanna hang out?”

“Hah, hang. Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

“Yeah, but like, you’re always bragging about your high score at Mario Kart, which I don’t believe you by the way, and saying I should come over and beat your ass…”

“You mean get  _ your  _ ass whooped. Alright, you’re on baby boy! Off to Casa de Deadpool!”

Wade’s apartment is also in a shitty neighborhood, also smells of mildew in addition to trash and rotting food which Wade hastily starts shoving into a garbage bag, and old blood. The recliner reeks of death, more specifically Wade’s death. 

Peter has seen Wade get hurt any number of times by now, bullets, knives, a small handaxe to the head that one time, and back in the beginning Deadpool often jumped off of buildings rather than climbing down, trying to impress Spiderman by breaking his legs and going splat on the pavement; but he really was indestructible, or rather infinitely fixable. Peter was still traumatized, always tried to help, but had gotten used to the casual way in which Deadpool sustained serious injuries. It was easy to forget that they hurt same as for a regular human, when Wade healed so quickly and made sure to shrug any attempts at worry or aid off with a joke. It’s easy to forget how fragile Wade is, beneath the humor and bravado and the suit.

He can tell that the blood on the chair is Wade’s, that it’s long since soaked through the cushioning, that the surface pleather has been wiped with bleach recently. 

Should he say something? But Wade has booted up the console and put popcorn in the microwave, is asking him to pick his character. And Peter lets himself chicken out, chooses Yoshi versus Wade’s Princess Peach, is distracted the entire evening and barely manages to scrape a few wins. Despite this, it’s fun, being with Wade outside of work (vigilante patrolling), playing a video game with another person. Peter vows to spend more time with Wade, to pay more attention, to not stop caring about him as a person.

  
  
  


He turns 25, and needs to molt again. He’s gone for two weeks, spends 192 hours molting, and another five days recovering. His lower jaw now unhinges; he can breathe through his skin; he has longer, urticating hairs across his arms and legs which he can flick like darts; his sclera has completely disappeared and his eyesight for static objects is so bad he can’t read unless he’s an inch away from 36 point font. He had stopped growing gradually at 15 when he got bit; instead he grew when he molted, which was part of why he was still short, and this time around he’d shot up 2 inches and finally reached 5’9”.  

When he goes out on patrol, Deadpool is waiting for him in Queens on his favorite brownstone.

“Oh my god Spidey where have you been are you okay are you  _ taller _ ?” he spits out in a rush, clearly worried, rushing over and hovering, hands halfway raised to check him for wounds.

Peter immediately feels guilty. He had known the molt was coming and that he’d need to disappear, but it hadn’t occurred to him to warn Deadpool, tell him he’d be fine and would come back. It hadn’t crossed his mind that there was someone out there who  _ cared _ .

“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry I didn’t tell you. I… had to do something.”

He can feel Wade scrutinizing him through the mask, the moment when the man decides not to push further. “Next time warn a guy, if you need space all you need to do is ask baby boy, don’t ghost me no more~” he sings lightly, but his words hit Peter in the gut.

_ Wade cares. About me _ .

He’s known Deadpool/Wade for a year, has gone from weird stalker to patrol buddy to hanging out with him at least 3 nights a week at his place, watching tv, playing video games, and having deep conversations about life (and butts). He knows the mercenary still takes job on occasion, when he thinks the baddie really needs killing, and Spiderman doesn’t mention it. Objectively, they’re  _ friends _ . Peter knows Wade’s favorite foods (pancakes, and “don’t tell anyone but I prefer burritos, I just like the word chimichanga”), favorite color (“red”), favorite actor (“Ryan Reynolds, duh”), his favorite tv shows (Golden Girls and Game of Thrones), knows that sometimes the voices in his head are horrible to him, that under the veneer of cheerfulness Deadpool has crippling self-esteem issues. Peter (Spiderman) laughs at his crude jokes, internally blushes at his innuendoes, they trade quips and banter like an old married couple.

So he does the only thing he can. “Peter.”

“Peter...?” Wade raises a masked eyebrow in confusion.

“My name is Peter.”

Deadpool gasps and squees. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers! Peter pumpkin pie, Petey-pie, Peteroni, Petrichor, no wait, pelmeni, ack now I’m just hungry. I know Spiderman’s first name. Best. Day. Ever!”

The giant man proceeds to burst into a jig, looking absolutely ridiculous and Peter can’t help laughing. He feels lighter than he has in ages.

  
  
  


At some point, Peter realizes that Wade is his best friend. Not because he’s his only friend, but because Peter genuinely likes and cares about Wade, and they share the same sense of humor and snark, are compatible as people. He’s never had a best friend before, he’d always been unpopular Puny Peter Parker, the weird kid with coke-bottle glasses who was way too into nerdy stuff like Star Trek and science and math, and got bullied and pushed around daily. 

Lately though, Peter can’t help but notice how  _ much  _ he likes Wade. The way his voice makes him shiver, the way his presence makes him feel happier, the smell of Wade’s low-key arousal and the sound of his increased heartbeat when he discreetly (or often blatantly) scoots closer to Spiderman while eating and tries to cop a feel (but he never does, because Peter doesn’t let him, and because Wade isn’t really trying, just teasing; the man is very big on consent, as everyone should be). At first, Deadpool had had a hero crush on Spiderman; now it seemed that Wade had a crush crush on Peter. And Peter doesn’t know what to do about that.

He’s had a few minor crushes in his life, all on girls, and then there was Gwen. He’d thought he’d never be interested in another person ever again, but here he was, nearly ten years later, and he felt like he was betraying her memory, though he knew she would want him to move on and the pain, while not gone, had somehow become bearable. Wade was her polar opposite: male, huge, crass, a mercenary. But he was also smart, funny, generous, and incredibly sweet and kind, especially when no one was looking.

He avoids thinking about it, because for there to be any chance at something more, he’d have to show his face, and that was out of the question. So he flirts back awkwardly (or maybe not at all, he really can’t tell), banters, fights crime, ignores his and Wade’s feelings.

  
  
  
  


There’s a fire during the day, an old tenement wreathed in flames and smoke. Spiderman has saved everyone he can, he’s not fireproof, but he knows there’s still people inside, can already feel the guilt of their deaths on his soul. He should have been stronger, faster, smarter--

“Spidey, is anyone still in there?”

“Deadpool!” Peter has never been happier to see the mercenary. “There’s an old couple on the fourth floor, third door on the right, they’re trapped--”

“On it!”

And Deadpool rushes through the fire, ignoring the flames that melt and burn his suit and flesh, up three flights of crumbling, burning stairs, pushing aside debris so he can reach the elderly couple who’ve managed to hide under a quilt to avoid the worst of the smoke. Spiderman is ready on the outside when Deadpool crashes through the weakened brick wall, catching the three of them in his webs. He lowers them down quickly but carefully, handing the grateful couple to the paramedics.

He turns to Deadpool, and realizes that large patches of his suit are gone, including part of the mask. There’s the disturbing smell of bacon and burnt spandex in the air. He can feel how tense Wade is from being exposed, so he grabs a shock blanket and throws it around the mercenary’s shoulders. Wade flinches away bodily before he realizes what Spiderman is doing. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rougher than usual from smoke inhalation. Rationally Peter knows he’ll heal, that he heals from everything, even death, but right now he can taste Wade’s charred flesh on his skin, can hear his flesh regrowing and his erratic heartbeat as the organ struggles to pump blood through damaged veins. Like every other time Deadpool gets fatally hurt, Peter expects him to die, is already grieving on the inside, everyone dies and leaves him--

“I’m fine,” Deadpool grunts as he tightly grasps the shock blanket to cover as much skin as possible, and abruptly leaves. Spiderman doesn’t follow.

  
  
  


He doesn’t see Deadpool for a few days and starts to worry. He didn’t even have Wade’s number since Peter didn’t have a cellphone. He caves and goes by Wade’s apartment uninvited, knocking on the window before opening it and getting hit with the stench.

Wade, still wearing the burnt suit minus the mask, is lying in his recliner, dead.

Wade is dead.

His hand is still clenched around the gun, there’s a bullet hole through his head, and layers of rotting brain matter on the wall.

Wade’s apartment is never really clean, but since Peter began coming over he’d made an effort to keep it mostly habitable and tidy. Peter moves on automatic, starts cleaning. First, he gathers all the trash in bags and taking them out to the dumpster. Second, cleans all the dishes and surfaces, and vacuums the couch. Then, washes the ceiling and scrubs the bare concrete walls furiously with bleach. Finally, brooms and mops the floor. He doesn't go into the bedroom, so he does the bathroom next, working on getting the mold stains out of the grout.

Six hours later Wade is still dead.

Peter finally collapses from exhaustion on the couch. 

  
  
  


Movement wakes him up immediately. Wade is conscious, blinking in confusion and scrunching his face against the strong smells of lemon and bleach. 

“What the fuck?”

Peter is overwhelmed by a tsunami of emotions: relief, guilt, grief, anger, horror, fear. His best friend had committed suicide, and if it had been anyone but Deadpool he would have been dead forever. 

_ I’m so sorry, Wade, I should have been a better friend _ , he tries to say, but the words are stuck in his throat.

Wade suddenly notices him and flinches, hands flying up to cover his face. “DON’T FUCKING LOOK AT ME!”

The irony is, Peter can’t even see his face. 

Wade stands and goes into the bedroom, slamming the door. He reappears moments later in a new suit and mask. “Hey Spidey, sorry you had to see that, not how I wanted to get caught…”

His attempt at lightening the mood fails miserably, so he sighs and sits on the couch next to Peter.

“How long have you been here?”

Accounting for his involuntary nap, “Eight hours.”

“Thanks for cleaning, you didn't have to do that.”

“I know.”

The mercenary clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s all Peter can think about. So he asks: “Why, Wade?”

“Because I hate myself. Because I hate what they did to me, what they took from me. Because I want a single fucking minute of silence inside my own head.” He faces the younger man, mask to mask. “Because you saw.”

Peter wants to yell, cry, hide in a hole safe from the world and complicated feelings, punch some sense into Wade. Instead he says gently, “Wade, I don’t care about how you look. We’ve been friends for two years, even if I were that shallow, do you still not trust me?”

“You’re one to talk, you’ve never shown me your face either.”

And that was an argument he couldn’t refute. Wade was right, how could Peter accuse the other of not trusting him, when he was doing the same? He should take off his mask now, prove that he did trust Wade. Instead he stays silent.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the man spits out, bitter and angry. And it hurts even more because he’s right.

“I…” He what? Peter Parker was a coward, hiding behind Spiderman to avoid dealing with his own issues. Inside he was still the same insecure teenager who’d liked the popular girl from afar, got bullied, didn’t have friends, lost everyone he cared about. Meanwhile Wade had been in the military, got cancer, got experimented on and tortured, watched his girlfriend get tortured and killed, was constantly in pain from dying and regenerating and being harrassed by voices in his head, a man who was universally hated and avoided yet didn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself and get injured and killed in order to help others, and had just committed suicide. 

“I care about you, Wade,” he whispers, voice wobbly even though his eyes are dry since he doesn’t have tear ducts anymore.

Wade instantly softens, his defensive posture easing as he tentatively reaches out and places a gloved hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I care about you too, Peter.”

The touch does something to him. He hasn’t been touched since Aunt May, hadn’t wanted her to touch him because he’d been too disgusted by himself. Even through the layers, he can feel the warmth seeping through Wade’s palm like a small sun and he shudders violently. Wade hastily withdraws his hand and Peter immediately mourns the loss.

He reaches up and pulls off his mask, because he does trust Wade.

Wade freezes, Peter ultrafocuses and can sense his eyeballs moving, his breath hitching, his muscles tensing, his heart pounding.

He knows what Wade’s seeing: the solid black eyes, the small hooked fangs through his parted lips, the blank expression from loss of facial muscles, the complete lack of even micromovement as he breathes through his skin, frozen. He looks like a disturbing mannequin, an alien from a scifi show, a nightmare creature from the Uncanny Valley: human but not.

“You’re beautiful.”

Peter’s heart breaks. The hand on his shoulder reaches up to cup his face, and he can feel every pore in the leather, as Wade reaches with the other to remove his own mask. Though he still can’t really see his face, and has already sensed it, the reveal still shocks him.

Peter pulls off his gloves and raises a bare hand to mirror Wade’s, cupping the man’s cheek. With the hairs on his palms he can feel the scars, truly understands the extent of them for the first time, can imagine what others see. He doesn’t have the words, so he does what he’s been wanting to do for a long time and hugs Wade.

The man is huge and warm and smells like home. Wade hugs him back like a lifebuoy in a stormy sea, and Peter feels true peace for the first time since Gwen died, feels his jagged edges finally begin to heal. Because Wade isn’t afraid, because Wade chose to stay. Because Wade cares for him.

It’s the most natural thing in the world to pull back a little, tilt his head up, and meet Wade’s waiting lips. The kiss is soft and chaste and powerful. Peter sighs as they part and tucks his head back under the bigger man’s chin, feeling his heartbeat.

Wade pulls them onto the couch, Peter sitting across his lap, face still tucked into his neck. They stay like that for a while, until Peter has almost fallen asleep. Wade shifts and lifts him up, bridal style, and carries him to the bedroom. The sheets smell of Wade, and Peter refuses to let go, so Wade is forced to lie down with him, fully suited, but he doesn’t seem to mind, rearranging them so they’re comfortable. Then Peter really falls asleep.

  
  


The next morning Wade wakes him, gently prying him off. Peter had been in a deep sleep, so he stays in bed, groggy and unwilling to get up just yet. Wade uses the bathroom, changes into civvies (no mask), and starts making eggs, toast, and bacon. That last gives Peter the motivation to get out of bed, his stomach grumbling.

“Hey Petey-pie, sleep well?” Wade asks, his voice genuinely happy.

“Best,” he agrees as he stands at the counter and starts eating the toast covered with fried eggs and butter.  

“Not a morning person, huh?”

Peter crunches on a piece of bacon noisily.

Wade laughs and stands across from him, eating his own portion in companionable silence. Neither knows what to say, wants to ruin the moment, and for now that’s okay with both of them.

After eating Peter revives. “I need a shower, so do you.”

“Can’t fake this kind of premium man musk. Unless you were asking me to join you?” His voice is casually neutral, whereas normally he’d be pushing the innuendo way too hard (hah, hard).

Peter takes a second to think about that, the two of them in the shower, Wade naked and wet and pressed against him… Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen-- “I don’t have any clothes.”

“You can borrow some of mine if you want. Or you can go home to shower, no pressure. Hah, get it?”

“Actually accurate, my shower’s terrible. I, um,” he panics a little, “iveneverbeenwithaman.” Smooth. So smooth, Parker. (Technically he never went all the way with Gwen, either.)

“Oh, uh, okay, so maybe we should talk about the Thing now.”

“The ‘Thing’? Is that what we’re calling this?”

“All I know is that I really like you, and it seems like you like me back (shut up I trust him, I will not let you ruin this), and we don’t need to stick labels on it or anything, but to be honest I’m not sure what to expect. So yeah, talking about the feelz would be the adulty, responsible thing to do. Or we could make out on the couch.”

The younger man sighs. “No, you’re right. I’m… I like you too, Wade, and I want to be more than friends, but I haven’t had a lot of experience… dating, so I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay, we can figure it out together.”

Peter was amazed at how mature Wade was being right now; was it because he was older, or was Peter just that bad at feelings? (Definitely the latter.) The mercenary was being uncharacteristically serious, yet Peter found it reassuring in this situation. 

“Will you try to eat me after sex?”

He choked on air. Aaaand classic Wade was back. “Um, I, uh, actually don’t know, but I would assume not since only female spiders do that.”

“Wait, don’t tell me you haven't done the do? The beast with two backs? Bumping penii?”

“Look at me, Wade, I’m not human. There isn’t exactly a line of suitors in front of my doorstep.”

“Their loss. And Peter, you’re the best human I know.” Wade said this in all earnesty, and Peter’s heart melted. “And  _ I _ think you’re hot.”

He smiled shyly, only his mouth moving on his half frozen face. “I think you’re hot, too.”

Wade didn’t seem to believe him (and Peter wouldn’t have believed the mercenary either except he could feel Wade’s sincerity), but didn’t argue, instead leaning over their finished plates to kiss Peter gently. A shiver ran through him at the softness of Wade’s lips, their mingled breaths as they parted. 

“So… boyfriends?” Peter asked hopefully.

“Yeah, boyfriends. The monogamous kind, at least for now, though I’m definitely open to suggestions.”

  
  
  


26, and Peter has a boyfriend. Everything and nothing changes after that. They still patrol together, fight crime, eat takeout on rooftops, hang out at Wade’s place and watch movies and play video games. But now seeing Wade get hurt, hurts more than ever, so the mercenary puts a lot more effort into avoiding injury; Peter chooses the takeout place every other time; they cuddle as they sit on the couch, and sometimes get distracted exploring each other. Wade is an excellent kisser, and has to be reminded to be careful of the fangs. Peter gives Wade massages and helps him put on lotion for his irritated skin. They’re happy. 

  
  


“Hey, know what day it is?”

“Monday?”

“Nope! It’s our three month anniversary!” Wade presents him with a greasy bag of chimichangas on their favorite rooftop.

“This is actually… very romantic. Thank you, Wade.”

“It’s always my pleasure, baby boy.”

  
  
  


Wade never pushes, lets Peter initiate anything new, always holds back so that Peter is the one making the final move. Peter worries that Wade thinks he’s going to change his mind and stop liking him, that he’s not fully invested into their relationship, into Wade, but he doesn’t know how to talk about it.

Soft kisses turn into passionate makeouts and heavy petting and handjobs, with less clothes involved each time, mostly Peter’s. But Peter is scared to take that last step, for the normal reasons (insecurity, first time) and for spidery ones. When he gets too worked up he tends to lose control of his super-strength, and he never wants to hurt Wade. Would he try to eat his partner after? He doesn’t think so, but gripping him hard enough to bruise or even break bone is a real possibility.

He’s been researching anal sex, knows the basics, but in this case theory does not make him feel better. He rarely masturbates, rarely feeling the urge, and he feels weird about putting anything up his ass and can’t bring himself to do it. At first the thought had actually grossed him out, but by now he’d be more than willing to try, especially with Wade. It’s just… the idea of getting naked and touching each other’s genitals is so…  _ embarrassing _ ? (Terrifyingly vulnerable)

Wade tries not to wear his mask when they’re at home (Peter’s stuff has slowly been migrating over to the mercenary’s larger, slightly less shitty apartment) unless he’s having a bad day, and those days are hard for both of them, but Peter never considers not doing everything he can for Wade. On his own bad days, Wade is there for him. So Peter doesn’t wear his either, and that takes a lot of getting used to. They both have crippling self-esteem issues, though weirdly Wade is fine with showing his body but not his face. On the other hand, while Peter’s face is the most monstrous part of him, he’s ashamed to take off his shirt, let alone his pants, a holdover from being mocked after gym class. He struggles not to instinctively hide and cover himself, and in the beginning kept jumping onto the ceiling every time Wade entered the room. He’s slowly gotten used to idea that Wade is genuinely attracted to him even as spider-mutate Peter Parker; it helps that he can sense the man’s arousal. So he tries to make sure Wade knows Peter is attracted to him just as much.

  
  


After five months of dating, Peter is ready to ravage Wade in the middle of Costco where they now shop together in civvies (“OMG,  _ you _ were my fashion bro?! We really are meant to be!”). He’s horny on Main for one Wade Winston Wilson aka Deadpool. He wants the D. 

He needs to stop chickening out and do it. He  _ wants _ to for fuck’s sake. So one night, while they’re ignoring a Golden Girls rerun in favor of making out on the couch, half-naked with Peter straddling Wade’s lap, Peter girds his metaphorical loins and purposefully grinds his ass down on Wade’s erection through his sweatpants.

Wade goes stiff beneath him, asks breathlessly: “You sure?”

“Wade Wilson, fuck me already.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

So Wade carries him to the bedroom, still attached at the mouth, and trips onto the mattress with Peter beneath him; if it weren’t for spidey-strength he would have been crushed. 

“Oops, sorry.”

Peter grabs the bigger man’s ass and squeezes. 

Wade is everywhere, kissing him, stroking his sides with his warm callused hands, grinding their hips together. Peter’s senses are overwhelmed, filled only with Wade. Now that the moment is here, he’s not afraid. He trusts Wade, has for years, knows he will be taken care of and cherished. They pause to remove clothes and  _ oh god _ , Wade sucks Peter’s nipple into his mouth while fondling the other with his hand. “Nng!”

He lavishes Peter’s nipples, kisses a trail down Peter’s stomach, breathes on Peter’s twitching cock. “You good, Petey?” His voice is rough with lust, making Peter’s skin tingle.

“Yes, Wade, please,  _ more _ .”

Wade reaches over to the nightstand, grabs the lube and squirts some onto his fingers. Then he lick’s Peter’s cock, making the younger man gasp and curse, before sucking him into his mouth and rendering him speechless. His mouth and tongue feel amazing, hot and wet and tight and  _ don’t stop _ , moving up and down on Peter’s cock, and then lube-cold fingers are teasing his entrance, it’s so much yet not enough.

Wade works in one finger, and it feels weird like he has to poop but Peter is so aroused and knowing that it’s Wade, what comes next, makes him beg for more. The second finger is uncomfortable, and the third is definitely a stretch; but Wade is patient, scissoring his fingers, working Peter open while sucking his soul out through his cock, and soon it starts to feel  _ really really good _ .

When he finally pulls away, Peter is a desperate mess. Wade goes to get a condom, but Peter interrupts him breathlessly. “We don’t need one, we can’t get anything. I want to feel you.”

“ _ Fuck _ , baby boy, I’m not even in you and I’m ready to blow,” he groans as he grabs a pillow instead and puts it under Peter’s lower back. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

Wade’s cock is proportionate, and it burns, feels massive and intrusive inside of Peter. But he goes slowly, working back and forth until he’s flush with Peter’s ass, and Peter would be crying if he had tear ducts from the intensity of having another person, the person he loved, sharing his body, splitting him in half with his ( _ fucking huge it feels like the Eiffel Tower got shoved up his colon _ ) cock.

Then Wade starts to move, slowly then faster, and it feels  _ so good yes Wade oh my god Wade _ , Peter is barely aware of the slap of their skin or his own wanton noises; he’s lost in bliss, electricity coursing over his skin, fire burning through his veins, his mind unable to form coherent thought under the onslaught of  _ Wade Wade oh fuck yes haaah _ .

Wade shifts his grip on Peter’s legs and the next thrust makes him scream. Wade aims for that spot again and again, and Peter’s orgasm rips through him without warning, frying his synapses with pleasure; he whites out from the rush of ecstasy. His brain comes back online in time to feel Wade moan and come inside him, before collapsing on top of him. They both lay panting, sticky from Peter’s cum between them, Wade sweaty and overly hot against Peter’s chilly skin.

Wade rolls off him so they can cuddle, cock slipping out with an uncomfortable twinge and leaving a sore, empty sensation, along with the feeling of cum trickling out of him which makes his cock give a valiant twitch. Peter buries his nose in the dip of Wade’s collarbone, and they both drift off for a bit. Peter wakes up first, his hole still a little achy but in a good way. Virginity is only a social construct, but sharing this with Wade was special. 

He wants to do it again.

  
  
  


The next morning Peter is humming as he goes to the laundromat to wash the sheets, fully covered as usual, but for once not caring one whit about other people’s opinions. He’s so incredibly happy (and satisfied), he wants to drift on the high forever. 

27, Peter Parker aka Spiderman is in love with Wade Wilson aka Deadpool. He is loved, accepted, cherished, spidery-ness and all, by an amazing goofball of a man. Life isn’t perfect, far from it, but it’s better, so much better now that they’re living it together. 

  
  



End file.
